


Inexplicable

by owncode



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Angst, F/M, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-01-21
Updated: 2017-01-20
Packaged: 2018-09-18 22:38:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,218
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9405914
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/owncode/pseuds/owncode
Summary: AU where the Inquisitor never loses their mark at the end of DA:I. Follows the events of Inquisition up until the very end and then diverges from canon.“You may reconsider that stance, in time,” Solas comments. She glances his way, and he can see the glimmer of amusement in the quirk of her lips. The upset feeling is eased. How curious. It returns quickly, however, when she laughs as Varric calls him “Chuckles.” As Cassandra and Varric start what promises to be another argument, Solas steps closer to her and murmurs, “My name is Solas, if there are to be introductions.” He was Solas before anything else, after all. A spirit of Pride given form. “I am pleased to see you still live.” The statement seems to confuse her until Varric interrupts, “He means, ‘I kept that mark from killing you while you slept’.” Soon after, she tries to strike up a tentative friendship. Solas is unable to deny her.





	

Solas remembers the first time he sees her – she is pale and lifeless, a poor imitation of even the fumbling, silly children who call themselves The People now. Even so, her pointed ears and fair features are a welcome respite from the rounded ears of the s _hem_. Solas cannot stomach the vallaslin, seeing Dirthamen’s tattoos over her face. She is too young, barely 25 from the looks of it, and yet, when he and the shem healer pulls off her tunic to gain access to the mark and the arm it is attached to, he has to swallow bile at seeing the blood writing extend further than her face. It was a punishment reserved for the worst offenders of their people. Or, if one of the Evanuris were particularly spiteful. He stops the mark from spreading, but barely just. Everything in this world grates at him and the lack of his power is no exception.

The second time, demons have called him into the valley. As a Dreamer, Cassandra says, he has the most experience with the Fade. He does not see her, not at first. Instead, he feels his magic, but separated from him. “Quickly, before more come through!” Solas yells, thrusting her hand, the one that bears his mark, into the air. The Dalish girl is reaching for her magic, presumably to shove him away, but he subtly redirects it into the mark. He does not know whether it works or not for the longest moment, because he has met her vivid blue eyes. Her hair is dark red and her face is spattered with the thick, viscous blood of demons. She is breathless, he can tell, memories of the same look but on the girls at the feasts of Elvehnan instead of her. The moment is shattered when she yanks her hand back, and he quickly makes an amendment to the breathless look. It was attraction, yes, but that of curiosity and fear.

“What did you do?” she asks. He wonders if she knows that he used her magic against her wishes. She can’t have known.

“ _I_ did nothing. The credit is yours,” Solas says, gesturing at her mark.

“I did that?”

He can’t tell if she’s asking in disbelief or suspicion. Solas doesn’t address her either way. Instead, he addresses Cassandra. The mark is not her fault, of that he is sure. He had given his orb to the twisted, mangled creature that called itself Corypheus. Cassandra wants the immediate solution, of course, closing the breach. Solas blinks and smiles. It feels false on his lips, but he has worn many masks before this and will wear more before his death. “It seems you hold the key to our salvation,” Solas says with a hum, finally appraising the girl.

The armor is awkward and ill-fitting on her, obviously made for a human. It is also missing boots. He suspects, however, that is her doing. It is also not her staff she is wielding, but that is little trouble for a mage like her. A tool is a tool, no matter if it is one’s own or not, but she wields it with only the simplest of spells and had used it to bludgeon a demon over the head like it was simply a club. She must be First of her clan, then. Or, without a clan. Solas supposes both are equally possible in the current climate. Why she was at the Conclave is an answer that would clear that question up.

Varric interrupts his musing with a wry, “And here I thought we’d be ass deep in demons forever.” The Dalish girl actually smiles at that, turning to meet the Child of the Stone’s eyes as he introduces himself. Solas finds himself oddly jealous, the feeling simmering softly in the pit of his stomach. “Varric Tethras. Rogue, storyteller, and occasionally, unwelcome tagalong.” Cassandra scowls.

“Are you with the Chantry, or-?” she asks, trailing off.

The smile dies a little as Solas snorts, leaving him discomfited. The words escape before he can stop them, however. “Is that a serious question?” he asks, shaking his head. Solas misses the dwarf’s response and Cassandra’s follow-up, caught up in trying to analyze his discomfiture. Her soft accent draws him out of his thoughts.

“It’s good to meet you, Varric,” she says, the smile less amused and more polite than anything now. Despite the distance the polite tone gives, her voice is warm.

“You may reconsider that stance, in time,” Solas comments. She glances his way, and he can see the glimmer of amusement in the quirk of her lips. The upset feeling is eased. How curious. It returns quickly, however, when she laughs as Varric calls him “Chuckles.” As Cassandra and Varric start what promises to be another argument, Solas steps closer to her and murmurs, “My name is Solas, if there are to be introductions.” He was Solas before anything else, after all. A spirit of Pride given form. “I am pleased to see you still live.” The statement seems to confuse her until Varric interrupts, “He means, ‘I kept that mark from killing you while you slept’.” Soon after, she tries to strike up a tentative friendship. Solas is unable to deny her.

He mulls it over in Haven, thinking again and again what she is trying to gain from him or wants for him. He turns away the dreaded thought that she thinks he is using her. It is upsetting, of course, because he cannot have her knowing his plans. Her disagreement would ruin all of them, and that is not a risk he is willing to take, no matter the benefit of her possible agreement. There could be no other reason.

She warms quickly to humor, he finds. So, when she approaches him back at Haven, he teases gently. “The Chosen of Andraste, a blessed hero sent to save us all.”

“Am I riding in on a shining steed?” she returns, the corners of her lips turning up.

He cannot help but to smile in return. “I would have suggested a griffon, but sadly, they’re extinct.” She opens her mouth to reply, but he quickly turns the conversation. It was getting too affectionate, too friendly. He cannot, will not, see her as more than she sees her staff. A tool. “Joke as you will, posturing is necessary,” Solas reminds her gently. She does not know how much posturing he actually means.

She hums, and makes no response. It leaves him slightly bereft and wrong-footed.

“I’ve journeyed deep into the Fade in ancient ruins and battlefields to see the dreams of lost civilizations. I’ve watched as hosts of spirits clash to reenact the bloody past in ancient wars both forgotten,” Solas says firmly, slipping into the comforting, flowing cadence of Elvehnan. It is the wrong tongue, though. She is silent and still, considering him. He finds he straightens automatically under her inspection. “Every great war has its heroes. I’m just curious as to what kind you’ll be,” he explains.

“Hopefully the kind who lives to become that embarrassing former hero everyone has to put up with,” she answers dryly. The quirk of her lips had diminished, but not disappeared. Unwilling to let go of her good humor, he notes.

“I can think of worse fates.” Again, Solas’ mouth runs away from him. She huffs out a small laugh, and he finds himself pleased. “I will stay then, at least until the Breach has been closed,” he decides.

Her head tilts, and the black vallaslin catches the light. He has to force himself not to grimace. It lends a certain comfort to him, because it is familiar and that sets his stomach to upset. They are the correct marks of those from Elvehnan and Arlathan, but their meaning is something that he cannot abide by. _If she knew, she would remove these demeaning marks in a heartbeat,_ he thinks. She is like him when he was younger, proud and fierce. She is not as cocky as he was, however. She does not charge into confrontation without consideration. He embodied pride; the thought of loss never occurred to him until he had actually lost. Her fault is not her pride, it is as he has seen in many Dalish before: she is unapologetically Dalish and defends her clan almost blindly. His eyes trace the marks down her throat, until they catch on knotted scar tissue. How he had not noticed the mark on her jaw and two on her neck before was beyond him.

“Was that in doubt?” she asks, obviously confused.

“I am an apostate surrounded by Chantry forces and unlike you, I do not have a divine mark protecting me,” Solas says, soothing her before she can jump in, “Cassandra has been accommodating, but you understand my caution.” The words only seem to strengthen her resolve.

“You came here to help, Solas. I won’t let them use that against you,” she says, nodding slightly. He feels as if something is missing when she says his name, but he can’t place his finger on why.

“How would you stop them?” Solas asks gently, not rebuking, but trying to guide her to sense.

“However I had to,” she answers immediately, her voice sharp and her shoulders and back straight. She is serious. Something in his heart warms, and he swallows a small lump. Perhaps her love for her clan, extends to all elvehn, not just her clan. Perhaps he has found a kindred spirit.

“Thank you,” he offers, slightly shaken by the emotions she elicits, “For now, let us hope either the mages or the Templars have the power to seal the Breach.”

She nods, and he thinks the conversation over and turns to move, but she catches the bend of his arm and smiles. “Lavellan, Solas,” she says, smiling. His cheeks color bright red as he realizes that he has never learned her name.

 “Ah, yes, they’re among the few to deal with humans,” he says, not acknowledging what she knows.

“Ellana Lavellan,” she responds, smile splitting into a grin. Ellana looks far too mischievous for his liking, he decides. “It’s nice to meet you.” She doesn’t give him a chance to respond, apologize, recover, anything, before she is gone.

They talk more on the way to the Hinterlands. She speaks about the hart she left with her clan, about her friends and family, being First of her clan, and, eventually, about what has happened. It is only natural that the conversation takes such a turn. Many do nowadays.

“Closing the breach is our primary goal,” Solas interrupts at one point, continuing pointedly, “But I hope we might also discover what was used to create it. Any artifact of such power is dangerous. The destruction of the Conclave proves that much.”

He can tell Cassandra is annoyed. Much of her life is goal-oriented, and there is not much room for that which takes attention from those goals. Varric pounces on her annoyance, beginning one of their arguments. The two wander ahead, leaving Solas and Ellana to converse.

“You don’t think it was destroyed in the blast?” she asks curiously. Her steps are silent. Cassandra is like any human, she forges her way ahead and leaves destruction in her way, slowly grinding down the woods into a path. Varric does not step as heavily to make such a path, but walks in the middle, as dwarves would in their tunnels. Ellana, ever the Dalish First, walks on the side of the path in the dirt and grass. Each step is careful and soft, not disturbing much and not snapping twigs. He imagines it is comforting under her bare feet. Solas walks with her.

“You survived, did you not?” he returns, smiling when she laughs. When the mirth dies, he continues, “The artifact that created the Breach is unlike anything seen in this age.” Truth is better than half truths and half truths are better than lies. So he tells her the truth as often as possible. “I will not believe it destroyed until I see the shattered fragments with my own eyes.”

Ellana hums, considering it. “Anything with that kind of power is bound to show up sooner or later,” she concedes, ever good-humored, “but Leliana says that her agents looked over the area.”

“Yes,” Solas sighs, “It is no longer there. In any case, - “

“I’d like to know more about you, Solas,” she interrupts.

“Why?” he asks immediate, unthinking and caught off-guard.

“You’re an apostate, yet you risked your freedom to help the Inquisition,” she explains, “I had no choice in risking my freedom, but you volunteered.” Elanna does sound curious, if slightly resigned to the risking of her freedom with her clan.

“Not the wisest course of action when you put it that way,” Solas agrees, something sharp in his voice. She was the one who wanted him to stay, does she regret that? The thought rankles. She is about to reply when Cassandra declares their camping spot for the night. Their conversation is interrupted as Solas is assigned the task of collecting firewood and Ellana is assigned to hunting dinner. Varric and Cassandra begin assembling camp. The fire is roaring and crackling when Ellana comes back just before sundown with four nugs. Varric looks slightly queasy as the Dalish mage sets about skinning the nugs and removing their entrails. Cassandra is refitting the tents, murmuring about the storm on the horizon. Solas begins cooking the meat as Ellana hands the nugs to him.

“I appreciate what you’re doing, Solas,” she murmurs over her bloody work. He is still sore over her questioning of him and does not reply. “I just wanted to know more about you,” she says, apologetic and soft, “I wasn’t asking as part of the Inquisition.”

His steely anger softens. “I am sorry. With so much fear in the air…” Solas says, relaxing when she nods and her face betrays her sympathy. “What would you know of me?”

“What made you start studying the Fade?” she asks.

He breathes a silent sigh of relief at the simple question. Internally, he recoils at the thought of lying to this strange, wonderful reflection of the real elvehn, but knows he must. “I grew up in a village to the north. There was little to interest a young man, especially one gifted with magic. But as I slept, spirits of the Fade showed me glimpses of wonders I had never imagined. I treasured my dreams. Being awake, out of the Fade, became troublesome.”

“Did spirits tempt you?”

The question is matter-of-fact, innocent in its curiosity, but it pricks at Solas, But, perhaps she is willing to learn, if he is willing to teach. “No more than a brightly colored fruit is deliberately tempting you to eat it. I learned how to defend myself from more aggressive spirits and how to interact safely with the rest. I learned how to control my dreams with full consciousness. There was so much I wanted to explore.”

“I gather you didn’t spend all your time dreaming,” Ellana says dryly, handing him the last two nugs and rinsing her hands with her waterskin. Cassandra and Varric join them sometime later, but Cassadra is silent as she sharpens her blade and Varric is as well as he pens his letters to his associates in Kirkwall.

“No,” Solas replies after a moment, “Eventually, I was unable to find new areas in the Fade.”

“Why?” she asks, wandering over. She sits down, leaning against the log he is sitting on. They are close, but not so much so that it strains her neck to look up at him. He has the unbidden thought of calling her da’len, and of being called hahren. Then it occurs to him he has not heard her speak the fumbling tongue the Dalish now call Elvehn. She was to be Keeper, he knows she knows it. Intensely, fiercely, suddenly, he wants to teach her how to properly speak it and to converse in those words so the shemlen don’t understand.

“Two reasons,” Solas says, biting his tongue before he can add the _da’len, “_ First, the Fade reflects the world around it. Unless I traveled, I would never find anything new. Second, the Fade reflects and is limited by our imaginations. To find interesting areas, one must be interesting.”

Ellana nods, processing the information. “I wish you luck,” she says, nose crinkling slightly as she smiles before turning the meat.

“Thank you,” he replies. The conversation could end there, but he doesn’t want it to. He wants more of her insatiable curiosity, more of her dry wit, more of her. “In truth, I have enjoyed experiencing more of life to find more of the Fade,” Solas admits.

“How so?” she asks, seemingly pleased that he has not ended the conversation. He notices, for the first time, the smattering of freckles along her skin. They spread over her face, and suddenly he wishes he could remember if they extend to her shoulders and down to her fingers or discover if they spread down her slender legs.

Solas hums thoughtfully. “You train your will to control magic and withstand possession. Your indomitable focus is an enjoyable side benefit.”

“Indomitable focus?” she repeats, voice low and sly.

He cannot stop from rising to her bait. “Presumably. I have yet to see it dominated. I imagine the sight would be… fascinating.”

A blush erupts on her cheeks as Varric wolf-whistles at them and winks at Ellana. “Who Chuckles was so smooth?” he teases.

“Shut up and eat your nug,” she huffs, though Solas cannot help but notice the secret, pleased smile on her face. The meat is divvied up quickly, all four digging in after a long day of walking with nothing but berries and dried meat to sustain them. Varric is the first to retire, claiming something about beauty rest. Cassandra is next, securing the other tent so that she and Varric don’t have to share. Ellana and Solas share a comfortable silence. It is only when he adds another log that she speaks first.

“Have you always traveled and studied alone?” she asks, quiet and casual.

“Not at all. I have built many lasting friendships. Spirits of wisdom, possessed of ancient knowledge, happy to share what they had seen. Spirits of purpose helmed me search. Even wisps, curious and playful, would point out treasures I might have missed.”

“I’m impressed you could become friends with spirits.”

“Anyone who can dream has the potential. Few ever try. My friends comforted me in my grief and shared my joy. Yet because they exist without form as we understand it, the Chantry declares that spirits are not truly people. Is Cassandra defined by her cheekbones and not her faith? Varric by his chest hair and not his wit?”

Ellana smiled softly. “You have an interesting way of looking at the world, Solas.”

“I try… And that isn’t quite an answer, Ellana.”

“I look forward to helping you make new friends,” she said, finally looking up at him. Solas found himself enchanted by the flickering of the firelight in her eyes.

He stumbled a little, replying, “That should be…well.”

“That isn’t quite an answer either,” Ellana said coyly, standing, “I’ll take second watch. Wake me up when you’re done.”

They took up many conversations like that. Solas wasn’t sure if she was interested in his knowledge or him, but he found he didn’t particularly care. He enjoyed the flirting and he enjoyed having someone to talk to. She seemed to flirt with such ease as breathing. He still remembered the wicked blush Cassandra had sported when the young elf had called her a force of nature. It was almost as deep a red as Ellana’s hair. Even with her ceaseless flirting, she listened to him and seemed to value his opinions, even if she disagreed. It was more than any Dalish had ever done. She did refuse to talk to him for two days after he had become short when she had teased him about being allergic to halla. He had responded gracelessly, he admitted, but she was blind to the truths of Elvehnan. Their argument had not ended well.

“The Dalish are children acting out stories misheard and repeated wrongly –“

“Oh, but you know the truth, right? You’re talking about what you see in the _Fade!_ The Fade is a reflection of the world around us and the strong memories that linger in that area, but of course, what one distorts in memory must be taken as absolute truth!”

“While they mangle details, I have seen things they have not!”

“My People come from the elves who refused to surrender when the s _hemlen_ broke their treaty and destroyed the Dales,” she retorted coldly.

“Your Keeper was not wrong about that, at least,” Solas sneered, “We must mark the occasion of the Dalish remembering something correctly! Perhaps we should plant a tree.”

Solas could practically feel her fury, his own anger softening at the look on her face. _How could she be expected to know_ , a small part of him whispered. Sera had even stopped snickering when they had begun yelling in the middle of the Storm Coast on the way to meet up with these Chargers. Blackwall didn’t stare at them with the same lack of propriety Sera did, but his gaze slid to the corner of his eyes to them far too often to be mistaken.

“Fen’Harel ma ghilana,” Ellana snapped, “Ma banal las halamshir var vhen!”

Solas couldn’t help but flinch at the old insult, but luckily the reaction wasn’t out of place in the wake of her anger. He opened his mouth, but the apology turned to ash on his tongue as his anger returned in a frightening wave. She was but a stupid, ignorant child, playing at a game she didn’t understand. A game Ellana thought herself Queen in, when she was only a pawn with borrowed power. He closed his mouth, sneering at her. “Ir abelas, but they insult themselves by refusing to learn.” She had turned immediately on her heel once his words had processed, magic snapping and crackling underneath her fingertips, looking to her companions for support.

“Whoah, Herald, I’m with Elfy on this one,” Sera apologized, shrugging and smirking ruefully, “even if he is up his own arse ‘bout it.”

Ellana stormed past her to Blackwall, who only offered the crook of his arm. Her leaving the conversation didn’t quell his anger. Instead it made it worse as she took his elbow. Blackwall murmured something to her about the Chargers and lead her away. Solas stewed on that gesture. Was he interested in the Herald? The man was clearly lying about something. His dreams, the few times Solas had stumbled upon them in the Fade, were haunted by Despair demons. If he was a mage, he would have already succumbed to possession. The man clearly wasn’t suited for her, or anyone, Solas thought savagely.

“Just like a proper chevalier, innit?” Sera asked, “Offering his arm like she’s a fancy priss, but maybe it’s her priss he wants.” Solas started cursing under his breath, but it only made Sera cackle. “I wouldn’t kick her out of bed. If she wasn’t so uppity about her elves or her magic. Kinda like you, eh?”

Solas huffed as Sera left him, leaving him trailing the three of them. She was given the cold shoulder by Ellana as well, however, and her mood sours as well as she moves ahead of even the other elf and the human. Solas trails behind, easily able to tell Ellana currently does not want his company. It infuriates him, the way she smiles shyly when Warden Blackwall calls her his lady. Perhaps she is so defensive of that which she does not which to be. Or maybe she wants to be shem. She has already betrayed the Elvehnan he worked so hard for. They all had.

They do not talk one on one until after Haven is destroyed. How she finds them is a miracle. Cullen finds her, shivering and blue, while Solas is helping heal the injured. He abandons his charge to the care of the non-magical healers, instead setting about putting heat back into her limbs. He does it the harder way as well, massaging her limbs even as she groans in pain in her sleep. The odd spirit stays with Roderick until priest dies. He is as Solas was, one foot stuck firmly in the realm of spirits and the other in the physical. Once she wakes and the rest have done their singing, he pulls Ellana aside.

He does not apologize, and neither does she. Instead he tells her of Tarasyl’an Te’las, and tells her to lead them, to become their Inquisitor. Before they part, she tells him quietly, “You and the Dalish have much in common, Solas. You both long for what was, instead of looking to the future to see what c _ould_ be. You should use your knowledge to help The People – my People and the city elves – instead of using it to scorn them.” Solas cannot help his immediate prickle at the perceived insult and he does not dignify it with a response.

**Author's Note:**

> My very first fic! Please be kind, but do let me know what you think through kudos and comments. Solas is such a strange and hard character to write, but I tried my best ;n; The Cole & Lavellan tag is mostly bc my Inky and Cole are bff's so I want their friendship to be important here. Also bc I headcanon that Cole doesn't actually leave with Maryden but stays to help with the Inquisitor and Leliana while everyone else goes on their merry way. This will follow the game pretty closely until the very end, I'm sorry if you expected otherwise OTL but please bear with me. Updates will likely be sporadic and I self-beta, so pls point out any grammar mistakes as you see them.


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